Memoirs of a Dragon
by redben2010
Summary: We all know that a soldier will often be given orders they will find boring if not completely mundane. But what if, upon clearing out an old house in lower parts of Whiterun, not only do they stumble upon an old book filled with possibly the worst penmanship they have ever seen, but the journal of the most famous hero of Skyrim!


Housekeeping

* * *

"All that I'm trying to say, Brom, is that the jarl must have some task more suited to a couple of guardsman that does NOT include spending a day cleaning out some old house," Jürgen complained to his companion. "I mean really, have you ever heard the bards sing of honor being found amongst the dust and cobwebs of some damn shanty older than dirt!"

Brom's comrade continued to grouse about what the duties of a warrior should entail, leaving the older guard to struggle internally to keep his calm. It was this way with all the new bloods who had decided to join up with the Whiterun Guard and have a chance to raise a sword for the honor and safety of the hold. They would sooner or later come to realize that being a soldier wasn't all heroic battles, drunken celebrations, and a chance to maybe catch the eye of some lass that just so happened to fancy a man in uniform. Brom understood this, for he had felt the exact same way over thirty years ago when he had joined up with the guard, and wasn't too ashamed to admit that his reasons then were just as shallow as young Jürgen's now. Didn't mean he had to walk with the man and suffer his fucking chatter, though.

"Jürgen, please, for the sake of my nerves and whatever teeth you still have in your skull, _SHUT THE HELL UP!_" Brom practically roared, drawing more than a little attention from their immediate peers. They had just entered the Cloud District after leaving Dragonsreach, and were making their way through the throng to carry out their jarl's decree. Brom's little outburst had drawn the attention of more than a few of the citizenry, and though most had returned to what they had been doing previously, a few had to be glared off by the irritated guardsman. It was quite clear that he was fresh out of patience.

Jürgen stopped where he was, standing beside his elder and giving him an injured look that only made Brom want to strangle him that much more. "But come on, Brom, you have to agree, housekeeping was never discussed as one of the required duties of a guard. There's plenty of servants at the jarl's beck and call that he could have sent over to clean that dump up. Even if we aren't currently at war, we should still be fighting _something_, like bandits or monsters. By the Eight, I get any more damned bored I'll settle with wrestling a mudcrab bare-handed."

Brom glared at his subordinate, wondering idly if he would be sorely missed if he were to inexplicably disappear. Considering his so-called 'popularity' with the other guards, probably not likely. "Whether it's housekeeping, fighting bandits, or wrestling mudcrabs, your first duty and last duty as a guard is to follow any and all orders from up on high, and these came from Jarl Nelkir himself. So you will suck it up, keep your bloody complaints to yourself, and for Divine's sake start acting like a soldier!" At this the elder abruptly about faced, and marched off towards the direction of the Plains District.

Jürgen watched him for a moment before following, glaring petulantly at the ground, as if he could blame all of his woes upon the earth beneath his very feet. "Just saying, it's been about an age since anything exciting has happened. I mean, is something like a bandit raid or a troll attack really so much to ask for?" the younger man continued, disregarding his companion's growing irritation as they passed by Jorrvaskr, the famed home of the Companions. The structure's appearance was not dissimilar to that of a large boat turned upside down, sitting atop a small rise overlooking the Cloud District, standing as proudly as it had for over four thousand years. "I bet not a day goes by where the Companions don't have to charge off into battle with brigands, or delving into some ancient crypt to fight some Draugher", the young soldier said with a slightly envious edge to his voice.

Brom stopped, turning to examine Jürgen's expression, then turning his own attention towards the mead hall itself. Understanding the boy's envy, he then turned a small, slightly sympathetic smile towards his comrade. "I'm afraid that there is something as aiming a little too high in your ambitions, lad. The Companions are easily the most skilled and fierce group of warriors in all of Skyrim, if not all of Tamriel. No offense, but you'd be lucky to last the week with them. Best course for you is to just stick with regular soldiering for now."

Looking a little put out, the younger man continued to follow the older, as they made their way out of the Cloud District and into the Plains, passing by the many market stalls clustered in front of the local shops, including a general goods store and a alchemic supplier, Belethor's General Goods and Arcadia's Cauldron respectively. Brom smiled to himself, remembering back to the days when the stores' namesakes were still managing them. If he remembered right, the proprietors were now some little weasel of a Breton named Liel, who was supposed to be Belethor's nephew, and a Dunmer by the name of Risa straight from Morrowind.

Brom sighed to himself, trying to shake himself out of his reflections. He wasn't that old for a Nord, being only at forty-seven winters, but by the gods if he was getting there. Wouldn't be long now when his hair and beard would start to grey, he reckoned. Nowadays, thinking about his earlier years was becoming something of a hobby, lamenting how far things had changed since he was a lad. Like the fact that Belethor had died in the chaotic Battle of Whiterun almost thirty years ago exactly, or how old Arcadia, after having ran the Cauldron for the better part of forty years, had finally passed into the next life in her sleep about three years ago. Brom let out another sigh, this time attracting Jürgen's attention.

"What's ailing you, old man, did you hurt your back or something ," Jürgen piped up from behind Brom. "You're starting to look a bit down, and being truthful it's starting to bother me." Brom halted, turning an annoyed glance on the younger man, who at the moment looked about as smug as a bear cub who had just found a honey comb. Honestly, younglings these days. Not enough respect for their elders to rub between two damn fingers. Brom would have to remedy that.

"Oh no, lad, my back isn't what's bothering me. It's the incredible pain in my ass that is standing about three feet behind me that the jarl, in all his wisdom, chose to saddle me with that's the bother. So sorry it's getting to you too." Giving the young man a smug smile of his own, Brom turned about smartly and picked up where they left off on the path to their current destination.

Jürgen chuckled to himself from his place behind Brom, trying to keep up with the veteran's stride. Brom could nag and grouch with the best of the elders, but one couldn't help but admire the old soldier's brass. That, and considering what all the man had been through in his life, with the dragons reawakening, the Stormcloak Rebellion, the Battle of Whiterun, the Second Great War, and then the Dragonborn's eventual victory over Alduin, one couldn't help but envy him. Brom could complain all he want, but Jürgen had to admit that he was content that the jarl had appointed the older man as his mentor.

Their advance finally brought them to their destination, the front door of an old run down house sitting next door to War Maidens. Brom had told him all about how the place had been the home of some hot shot thane in the closing years of the 4th Era, back when he was a lad, but if he had told him that it had been built sometime during the 2nd, Jürgen would not have doubted him. Standing at two stories high, there was honestly not one part of it that wasn't covered in mold, lichen, vines, or all of the above. All of which giving dwelling the appearance of a large bush. He could barely make out the wood that was underneath all the brush, but what he could see appeared to be rotted and cracked beyond any attempt at repair.

"Well, here we are. In my day people around here called this place Breezehome, and I'm telling you lad, not a person in town couldn't help but admire her. Not as showy as the Battle-Born house or any of the houses up in the Cloud, but she has a strange sort of draw that really speaks to a true Nord," Brom said, running an almost affectionate hand over the aged door frame, slightly disturbing the foliage currently attached to it. Turning back to his follower, he inquires, "Well lad, ready to get this over and done with?"

"If I say no does this mean we can go to the Bannered Mare and drink ourselves stupid, maybe flirt with Frecs a little while I'm there?" Jürgen said, only slightly hopeful.

If glares could cut, Jürgen would probably have been picking what was left of his face up off the pavement. Brom turned back to the front door, his hand digging around in the pouch fastened at his belt, finally withdrawing a small iron key. Jürgen honestly couldn't see the sense in bothering with a key. Looked like all one had to do was lean up against the door and just let nature take its course.

Fiddling with the lock a moment, Brom finally managed to fit the key in and, after some more fiddling, unlocking the entrance. Giving the door a small push, it slowly swung inward, releasing a couple of decades worth of mold and rot scented foulness, giving both men pause. The light of day barely penetrated more than a foot within the entrance, leaving the rest of interior in an unwelcoming blackness. Both men shared a glance, now even Brom not caring much for the idea of walking in there.

"Well, experience before youth," Jürgen said, trying unsuccessfully to inch a bit further behind Brom. Rolling his eyes, the veteran caught the lad roughly by the scruff of his neck. Placing him forward, he shoved him none to gently over the threshold to sprawl somewhere within the confines of house, the boy grunting from the impact. Brom then straightened his own uniform and, smirking, proceeded inside. Menial housekeeping or no, he knew this was going to be an interesting assignment.


End file.
